


Brooklyn Winters

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Soulmates, nobody is in a relationship, steve and bucky are family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky remembers Brooklyn winters</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brooklyn Winters

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just headcanon written out to read like fic. Thanks to Em for putting up with me.

He remembers winter. If nothing else, he remembers winter. He remembers nights and days, days that turned to weeks, of holding Steve while he slept. Kissing Steve's temple and holding him close because he didn't want him to die, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it if it happens, or spending all his time around the run down apartment they'd managed to procure somehow,checking in just in case Steve was too weak to call out for him.

Of all the friends he had, he would have missed them. But the one he'd miss most was family, was the one person he would miss most was the one he slept next to, the one he'd been drunk with, the one he'd shared illness with, nursed through illness itself. The one he'd picked dirt and gravel off, the one he'd made coffee for.

Nobody would ever come close to Steve the way Bucky had, just as nobody could be to Bucky what Steve had been, because they weren't just family - they were family who _chose_ to be family.

He always hated winter, he was always angry at the very thought of it. Right there, all around them, and there was nothing he could do to fight.

He remembered times when he'd talk to Steve all through the night when his fevers burned high, brushing sodden hair from Steve's forehead, pressing cool cloths there as though it might do anything but stave of the inevitable, and help him bathe when he could barely stand, and feed him when he didn't have the strength to lift a spoon to feed himself the pathetic, watery, measly stuff they'd made out of the dry bits of vegetable that hadn't yet rotted.

Bucky would never buy anything for himself, even when Steve wasn't sick, because he knew that Steve would get sick again. And he didn't care about spending every saved penny as long as it kept Steve there, as long as it kept his friend alive, as long as Steve would just _live_.

And sometimes, Bucky thought he'd failed. When he saw Steve big and strong, when Steve would stand tall and proud, when Steve and The Captain were indistinguishable from one another. Just sometimes he'd hate himself that _he'd_ never been able to do that for Steve.

There were some nights, in Brooklyn, in winter, when Steve would roll towards him in his sleep and press his face into bucky's neck, and Bucky would just hold him back, wrap his arms around Steve and try to ignore the stark sharpness of so many ribs, of all the bumps in his spine. Steve would snuggle close, like Bucky once saw him do to his Ma, so Bucky would let him, and hold him back because neither of them had anyone else to hold them any more.

Even when they fought together, it was always that way. After their first mission, the one time Bucky nearly lost a toe to infection, the times Steve would shiver when he wasn't cold, the times Bucky would be angry at the snow and the ice though everyone was safe and well.

Bucky used to hold his hands when they slept, back in Brooklyn. During the day, when Steve would read, Bucky would lie behind him, Steve's back to his chest, surrounding him as best he could until exhaustion took Steve down again. He'd keep one hand on Steve's elbow, sling the other over his stomach, so that Steve couldn't slip off the bed without his knowing, couldn't stop breathing without Bucky being able to tell.

Tiny, thready little fingers that would only turn clammy when Bucky blew against them, and a neck that looked like it couldn't support the weight of his head, and he'd look reasonable in his too-big clothes until he had to undress, and then it was easy to see his bones move under his skin because he had no muscle.

And how, if Bucky had to dress him, or undress him, he hated putting on Steve's shirt, hated taking off Steve's shirt, because his hands would look so big against Steve's chest.

Steve would whisper things in the middle of the night that would chill his blood, things that sounded like Steve was saying goodbye, or he'd try to speak and wasn't strong enough to say the words.

It had been so hard to make him warm - Steve didn't weigh anything. There was no pressure and not enough body contact to generate heat. If Bucky rubbed his arms, he couldn't get Steve's skin to stay warm. And there were some nights he'd lay Steve down and lie over him, elbows either side of his head, legs tangled together, desperately trying to keep the covers over them and make their little pocket of air warm, and Steve would duck his head against Bucky's chest and shake with it. Because it wouldn't work.

He woke up one morning and he could see his breath, and there was frost on the metal fixtures in the room where they lived, and Steve's skin was cool and dry, and he wasn't shivering, and Bucky couldn't see him breathing, and he'd yanked Steve onto his back and stared at him, expecting – dreading – nothing in return.

And Steve had blinked blearily in the cold, white light and asked what was wrong, and Bucky couldn't answer him because he couldn't breathe because he'd been so afraid.

Hands under each others' shirts, faces pressed to each others' necks, legs tangled together and that's what kept Steve alive. It was awkward and cold and a lot of people misunderstood and called them names, didn't understand that they were two halves of the same person instead of two halves of a relationship, but Bucky kept Steve alive even when the snow was so thick he couldn't leave the building to steal bread for them.

If he never did anything else with his life, he remembered that. He won against winter, year after year, forced it down, away, out, with everything he had. He beat winter. And he made damn sure Steve beat winter too.


End file.
